A Taste of Heaven (4 page)

“This house is a lot bigger than it looks
outside,” she commented as she followed Joe Channing.

“Tyler's pa built it when they came up from
Texas after the war. He cut down every one of the logs
himself.”

He stopped and opened the door to a large
bedroom that had a preserved look, as though it had been waiting in
readiness for years, but had remained unused. Lace curtains hung at
the windows and the bed was big. She thought of her third-floor
room in Chicago. Located under the roof, it had been ice-cold in
the winter and like an oven in the summer. And compared to her cot
by the stove at Ben's place, this was heaven.

It wasn't until the foreman spoke again that
she realized she'd been standing there wide-eyed.

"Will this be all right, Mrs. Ross?"

“Oh, yes.” She sighed. “It's just fine.”

“Then I'll tell Rory to bring your trunk in
for you,” he said.

She thanked him and after a moment's awkward
silence, he tipped his hat and let himself out. When the door
closed behind him, she heard his boot steps in the hall as he
walked away. She couldn't help but wish that he was the boss here,
and that her immediate future was settled.

After Rory brought her trunk a minute later,
she knelt in front of it and lifted the lid. Her throat tightened
momentarily at the faint lavender scent that reminded her of
another time and place. She quickly lifted out a long white apron
and closed the lid again, pushing the memories back in. Tying the
starched cotton around her waist she took a deep breath and went
back downstairs. The kitchen was as roughhewn as the house. The
Brandauers, always eager to be the first with the best, had bought
a gas stove three years earlier, and Libby was accustomed to the
predictability of gas cooking. Now she faced a huge black iron
beast that had a low fire banked in its belly. She'd also had an
icebox in the Chicago kitchen, but no such convenience would be
found here, either. Of course not, she reminded herself as she
poked through the shelves, looking for spices. There was no
iceman.

Libby stoked the fire in the stove, then
inspected the supplies. She peered into big dark bins of rice,
flour, beans, sugar, and other staples. Mice had been into most of
them, and the flour had turned weevily. The perishables—meat, eggs,
and butter—were spoiled. If they had ham or bacon, these were
nowhere to be found. Nearly everything bore a film of grease and
dust. She shook her head as she wiped her hands on her apron.
Whoever had run this kitchen before her had been lazy and very
careless. No wonder everyone had come down sick. It would take a
lot of hard scrubbing to bring the place up to her standards.

How much food did a person prepare for twenty
hungry men? she wondered as she measured the best of the flour.
She'd cooked for dinner parties in the past, but the numbers had
been smaller, and she'd had help. All she could do was make her
best guess. She shrugged and brought out a big enamel bowl and
cast-iron skillet. With the salvageable provisions she put together
a quick meal of biscuits and a good, peppery gravy. There was no
baking powder, only saleratus, and that meant the biscuits would
have an alkaline taste. After locating jars of canned cherries, she
made three pies. Bacon or sausage would have gone well with all of
this but there, was nothing more she could do. If she stayed on,
this kitchen would have to be stocked decently.

Two hours later, as dusk purpled the valley,
she stepped out to the porch intending to ring the iron triangle
that called the men to meals. But when she looked up, she saw most
of them already waiting along the porch rail. Charlie Ryerson stood
at the front of the line, as befitted the top hand. The scent of
bay rum drifted to her. Scrubbed and combed like they were going to
church, the cowboys stared at her with anticipation.

“It surely smells good, ma'am,” Charlie
ventured from behind his mustache.

Libby wasn't particularly proud of the
results but she raised her voice a bit to be heard by those in the
back. It was intimidating to address a group of strange men. “I-I
wish I could've fixed something a little more hearty, but I
couldn't find any meat in the pantry that wasn't spoiled.” She
gestured behind her in the general direction of the kitchen. “The
best I could do was biscuits and gravy, with cherry pie for
dessert.”

When they didn't move, Libby felt her cold
hands grow icy. Maybe biscuits and gravy weren't acceptable? Mr.
Osmer had told her they didn't need fancy food. If she didn't make
a good impression on these men, she certainly wouldn't be able to
win over Tyler Hollins. Well, there was no helping it now—the
supper was cooling on the long tables inside, and it was all she
had for them tonight.

“Well, gentlemen, supper is served.”

It was as though she'd fired a gun. She
jumped out of the way as they stampeded through the door. There was
a lot of jostling for seats, and the sounds of bench legs scraping
over the plank flooring and tin plates clanking against the
silverware. Libby stood in the doorway, her mouth open slightly as
she watched the men fall on the food like starving refugees. There
was no conversation at the tables; the business of eating took
precedence over everything else. But as she passed among them,
pouring coffee, nods and bashful smiles were directed at her, and
any doubts she may have had about the meal evaporated.

As soon as each man had finished, he left the
table. Libby wasn't used to that—where she came from, people
lingered after meals, wanting more coffee, more tea, more service.
Most of all, she wasn't accustomed to being thanked.

“Much obliged, ma'am. That was a good
supper.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Ross.”

“I ain’t had cherry pie since I can't
remember.”

By the time Libby sat down with her own
biscuits and gravy, she was almost too tired to eat. With the plate
in front of her, she stopped to massage the back of her neck and
rub her temples. Even her braid felt heavy resting on her back. She
swore this had been the longest day of her life, and she still had
dishes to wash. Cleaning the kitchen itself would have to wait
until tomorrow.

Just then, the door opened and Joe Channing
walked in. He hadn't been part of the original rush of diners, but
had come in later.

“Thanks again for supper, Mrs. Ross. You did
a fine job on such short notice.”

Libby never thought of herself as Mrs. Ross.
It was hard enough for her to remember to introduce herself with
that last name instead of Garrison. The only other name she'd ever
imagined for herself Brandauer. “You can call me, Libby, Mr.
Channing.”

“I'll do that ma'am, uh, Miss Libby, if
you'll call me Joe.”

She gave him a tired smile. "All right,
Joe."

*~*~*

Later that night, Libby lay in the big bed
upstairs. She was bone weary but sleep wouldn't come. Until last
summer, her life had had a relentless sameness. She hadn't been
happy, but there had been security in the monotony, knowing that
today would be the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow. Then
Mrs. Brandauer had discovered the secret of Wesley and her.

That had led her to Ben Ross's shack, and the
horrible months that followed. Now she slept under a strange roof
that belonged to a man she hadn't met, a man who might put her out
on the road as soon as he returned.

She pulled the linen sheet closer to her chin
and closed her eyes, hoping she wouldn't see Ben's shroud in her
dreams.

*~*~*

It was almost midnight when Tyler Hollins
pushed through the swinging doors of the Big Dipper Saloon, tired,
saddle-sore, and dirty. A few late-night customers lingered in the
smoky retreat, and a listless card game was underway at one table.
The primary goals on his mind were a beer and a bed. He got his
beer and settled at the corner table, crossing his ankle over his
knee.

“By God, Ty, you look good enough to eat,”
Callie Michaels called across the room. Callie owned the saloon and
she considered him to be one of her special customers. She made her
way to him, her rust-colored hair shining like a dark penny under
the kerosene lamps, her hips swaying in her garnet dress. Unhooking
his ankle, she wiggled into his dusty lap.

She snaked an alabaster arm around his neck
and leaned toward his ear to be heard over the clanking piano. “How
about if we tell the rest of these bums good night and go upstairs
for a midnight snack?”

He chuckled. No one could accuse her of being
shy. “You’re a shameless female, Callie, but that’s part of your
charm.”

“I’d say it’s about half,” she replied,
and looked him over with a gaze of candid appreciation. “It’s good
to have you back—things just aren’t the same when you’re gone. You
give those gals in Miles City a sample of
your
charms?”

“You aren’t going to start getting jealous
after all this time, are you?” he asked, going along with the game.
She had a smile that unsettled some people, and in fact, had once
unsettled him. It made her look as though she had a secret that no
one else knew. Hell, maybe she did.

She waved a smooth, white hand in a
dismissing gesture. “Me? No, sir. But I know your habits, and I
just got to wondering if you strayed from them when you’re away
from home.”

He bounced her once on his knee. “The only
thing I did in Miles City was sit through a lot of meetings with
cattle buyers. I’m dead tired and I want to go to bed.”

Her whiskey-colored eyes darkened with
promised sensuality and she rubbed a breast against his shoulder.
“Well, then, come on, Ty. Let’s go up to my room.”

On another night he might have. His
relationship with Callie was straightforward and uncomplicated,
just the way he wanted it. She satisfied his physical needs and
appeared pleased with his ability to do the same for her, and with
the twenty dollars he gave her. But it was late and he was too
tired for the amount of energy she burned up.

Suddenly, nothing was more appealing than
getting back to the private solitude of the ranch. He'd been gone
less than two weeks but it felt like an eternity, and something in
his soul was left wanting by his absence. He reached for his beer
and drained it.

“Next time, honey. Tonight you'd probably
kill me.” He patted her backside to move her off his lap.

Pouting in her disappointment, she stood
slowly and raked his form with a sultry gaze. Running a hand over
her hip, she gave him a slow smile. "But, darlin', can you think of
a better way to leave this life?"

He laughed then and shook his head. Walking
to the doors, he threw a good night to her over his shoulder.

It was five miles to the house and only a
half-moon lit the way, but Tyler and his pinto knew every inch of
the wagon-rutted road.

When he cleared the last rise, he reined in
his horse and looked at his home. The meetings in Miles City left
him feeling like vultures had picked at his bones. The buyers were
eager to take advantage of the winter-borne disaster that had
befallen cattlemen all over the Great Plains. At the railhead in
Miles City they were calling it the Big Die-up, and the
cigar-smoking opportunists knew it. There was still plenty of Texas
cattle they could buy instead—they didn’t need him. A couple of
times, he'd almost walked away from them. He'd wanted nothing more
than to get back on his horse and come home. But he'd known he
couldn't, that he needed fast cash to rebuild the herds. So he'd
hidden his anger and tempered his pride, and he'd agreed to the
piddling offers. Because this land spread out before him made it
all worth it.

His hands braced on the pommel, he leaned
forward slightly in his saddle. As far as his vision could reach,
the grass lay frosted in moonlight, accented with lingering traces
of snow. The house and outbuildings were quiet in the midnight
hush. This belonged to him. He was its master, he was its son.

It was hard for him to believe now that he'd
once walked away from it. That only a promise made to his father in
the last hours of his life had brought him back to stay. But that
had been a long time ago. Tyler had been young and idealistic then,
with no experience to make him value what he already had. He'd also
had no idea of the grief that lay ahead.

He urged the horse forward, down the slope to
the last quarter mile home. The ranch slept, but he was met by his
dog, Sam, who gave one loud bark in greeting. Sam's tail wagged
with joy that shook his entire length.

Ty got off his horse and patted the front of
his shirt. The delighted dog stood to put his two huge forefeet on
his master's chest. He laughed at the canine smile, then pulled his
head back as his dog's tongue lapped at his chin. “Okay, Sam,
that’s enough. I can get my own bath.”

After he unsaddled the pinto, fed him, and
turned him loose in the paddock, Ty went to the kitchen for a piece
of soap and bucket of warm water from the reservoir on the stove.
Standing on the back porch, he was filled with the contentment of
homecoming. The only sound was the wind sighing through the miles
of rich grassland that surrounded him on this landlocked island he
loved.

He pulled off his clothes, then lifted the
bucket and poured some water over his head to rinse off the travel
dirt. The breeze that stirred the grass felt like a winter gust on
his wet skin. Shivering, he hurried with his makeshift bath. He
hadn't remembered to get a towel and he looked inside the kitchen
door for one. What he found instead was a white apron on a hook by
the stove and he dried himself off with that.

A delicate scent whispered to him, giving
rise to a fleeting memory of windblown sheets flapping on a
clothesline. A face he hadn't seen in years flashed through his
mind, then was gone. Puzzled, he decided the fragrance must be
Callie's perfume on his shirt. He picked up his clothes off the
porch rail and padded naked through the kitchen to the stairway. He
didn't bother with a candle. He knew there would be enough
moonlight coming through the hall window to let him find his
bed.